Solo

I could dive into this thing (that’s also happening here and there), but I’ll save that for another time. Instead, I’ll make yet another “progress” post about trains and stations…or something.1

I was in bed with Belle Fille earlier in the evening (yes, this evening – can’t sleep), kissing her chin and jaw and face and trying my best to maintain a semblance of control. Since one of the things that’s put Belle off recently is my voracious approach to her body when I’m awash with wanton lust, we’ve established an expectation that I will treat her personage with the respect that it deserves and not as though it were my blow-up girlfriend or something. Steve’s Michelle calls it “queenly dignity”. We don’t have a phrase, but it basically means I can’t grab her tits, shove my hands down the front or back of her pants, grind any part of me into any part of her, get all Doctor Octopus on her, or kiss her in an extra slobbery or tongue-intensive way. Without permission, that is. Sometimes, that’s what she wants. Most of the rest of the time, it’s too much. Therefore, I respect her personage.

So anyway, I was respecting the fuck out of her personage in bed a little while ago, as I said, planting the sweetest, most non-slobbery kisses I knew how on her sweet little face, hand placed sweetly and especially non-grabby on her side and pouring all my desire to do more into my right foot which was thumping on the bed like…well, like Thumper, when she turned away from me and opened her nightstand drawer. A moment later, I saw she had Pink. At first, I thought she was going to hand it to me, but no. She wasn’t. Instead, she moved her hand under the covers, heading south.

“But what about me?” I asked stupidly, sounding hurt.

“You’re…right there,” she replied, “I see you. Sometimes, a girl just knows what she wants…”

“Can I…help?”

“I don’t need any help.”

And she began. I was very close to her. I placed my hand over her torso, not moving towards her breasts (respecting the personage and all) and hugged her close. So close, I thought I could almost feel the vibrations through her body. Her eyes were closed, neck arched. She was entirely within herself, miles away from me. I felt her move her legs further apart and the memory of the feeling of her pussy enveloping what used to be my cock flashed palpably in my mind. I ached, literally and figuratively, to fuck her. The tube was all I could feel now, and it was throbbing. Pounding. Balls aching from the pressure of the ring being smashed behind them.

I was so close to her, I didn’t need to hear the sound of the vibe’s motor becoming rhythmically muffled to know she was fucking herself with it. Twenty days of denial screamed at the injustice of missing a chance to participate in her pleasure. Her orgasm started to build and the pace of her movements under the cover quickened. Her breathing was fast and shallow. I moaned. She came. I whimpered.

After a few moments, I placed my hand on her face and stroked her cheek as she basked in her self-inflicted afterglow. I felt small, wounded, unnecessary – submissive.

“That wasn’t a punishment,” she finally said, “It’s what I wanted, so I did it.”

The pressure in the tube doubled as her words stuffed me deeper into my subspace.

“I love you, Belle Fille,” was all I could say in return.

1 I’m not sure what it means either, but it might help if you go read the clusterfuck for yourself.

The new bunny

While at the the cabin a few days ago, I decided that Belle needed to step up from the basic, entry-level vibrator we got for her several months ago to something more full-featured. Don’t get wrong, Pink is a terrific little vibrator, but it’s just that. A little vibrator. As I said last time, Belle’s orgasms need to be as “frequent, spectacular, and celebrated” as possible. Therefore, I figured it was time to upgrade the hardware.

Never having needed a vibrator myself (simple slabs of latex shaped like various porn stars’ dicks were always enough for me), I used Belle’s best friend’s experience to help me pick one out. No, I didn’t call her up and ask (that’d be an interesting conversation, wouldn’t it?), but I did remember Belle relating to me that she had and was very happy with a rabbit-style vibrator. Shopping around, I found that the issue with many of these kinds of vibes is that they’re friggin’ ugly. Either they look like they were slapped together out of random parts or their design suggests they were left here by visiting space aliens (sometimes, both). I wanted Belle to have one that looked like it was made by Apple. Sleek, clean lines, well made, and pretty. Yeah, those are the expensive ones.

I settled on this model. It was pricey but well-reviewed and, of course, Belle’s worth it. Its smooth, dolphinesqe form appealed to our shared aesthetic, but the real clincher was that the clitoral stimulator looked exactly like a little pink rabbit bowing to the power of the clitoris. Sold. Unfortunately, since we weren’t home and I didn’t think a UPS guy showing up at the cabin with a plain, unmarked box that I quickly ran back to our bedroom with would look all that great in front of the in-laws (assuming UPS would even deliver that far back into the boonies), Belle was denied trying out her new toy until last night when we got back.

Upon opening the box, I was initially impressed with the thing’s heft. It’s not really big, but it’s got some density to it. I’d say it has about a half inch more insertable length than me and is maybe a quarter inch wider than me. This worried me, not because my fragile male ego wouldn’t be able to deal with her preferring it over my original equipment, but because she’s always going on and on about how she thinks I’m the perfect size for her and doesn’t want anything bigger, yada yada yada. As far as I’m concerned, this thing should be better than me since, you know, it vibrates and the head rotates and shit. It’s got R&D and modern microelectronics on its side. All I have is a few million years of evolution. In any event, I want her to dig it. If she ends up liking it over her cock, so be it.

So anyway, once the boy finally went to sleep, we broke out the new bunny. From what I’ve read (I may not have mentioned previously, but I don’t actually have a vagina of my own), rabbit-style vibes are a little trickier than others in that they stimulate multiple regions at once. While it’s possible for me to use little Pink on Belle with great affect, it would be harder for me to use the new bunny without actually seeing its successful application by Belle on herself since each pussy is unique, like beautiful snowflakes, etc. I prepared the sleek dildo with a bit of Astroglide and handed it to her.

There were a few candles lit, but the majority of light in the room was from the near-full moon streaming in through the open windows. With the cool blue light of the vibe’s controls mixing with the clean, white light of the moon on her skin, she began. At first, she fiddled with the controls and played around with the different vibe settings and head rotation speeds. She found a combo she liked and settled on the correct angle of attack before doing something I had not expected. My personal experience with artificial dongs involves their rapid, piston-like movement through well-lubricated orifices, but once she found the sweet spot, she closed her legs on it and just left it there. I guess that makes sense in retrospect since her clit was being stimulated on the outside while the head of the thing was rotating from within, but I though there’d be more athletics.

Nevertheless, she seemed to really be into it. At one point, she pulled her top up which, I’ve learned, is her way of telling me to suck her tits. Of course, I was way happy to oblige. My punishment from last week’s unauthorized orgasm was over, so I was free to play with myself, but she had neglected to give me permission to take off my clothes so I was more or less covered in all the strategic places. Skin on skin contact with her was better than anything I could do to myself.

Shortly after I started sucking and playing with her nipples, she came. It sounded good, but not the most sky-shattering orgasm I’ve ever seen her have. As soon as it was over, she removed the vibe and said, matter-of-factly, “It’s definitely bigger than you.” And I think that’s good. She made all these sounds about how it wasn’t better, only bigger, etc., but ultimately, the size was not a problem for her.

After she came, I was seriously horny. I’ve been out of the device for three weeks now and unenforced denial is very, very different from the other kind. If I had been locked-up, I’d have been feeling some discomfort from the stifled erection, but wouldn’t have had any specific urge other than to boil in my own hormones and wait for them to be internally consumed. Not being encumbered left me with a throbbing erection enhanced by a solid chrome cock ring around its root. I wanted to jack-off so bad I could taste it.

“Please, Mistress, can I jack-off?”

She said yes because she’s so very good to me. While she put her pajamas back on and got up to pee, etc., I laid there, underwear pulled down around my thighs and Astroglide poured over her cock, and beat the fuck out of it. It felt so, so wonderful as the bulbous head of the cock slid under the tightly encircling fingers and the remainder of my foreskin stretched up and over the ring through my PA on the reciprocal stroke. I came very close to shooting several times – the last when she was laying next to me rolling my nipple between her thumb and finger – before a great feeling of selfconsciousness came over me. She was sleepy. Her eyes were already closed. Instead of focusing on her and whatever post-orgasmic needs she had, I was instead selfishly stroking myself for no reason whatsoever except to indulge my animal lust (since, of course, I wasn’t going to come). My desire to continue was shed from me like a dirty t-shirt and I got up to clean off her new toy and put it in its proper place.

Stupid penis tricks

I think this is neat, though I assume you’ll find it gross. I figured out yesterday that, if I remove my PA jewelry and pinch the head of the dick closed, I can pee just fine through my piercing. What do you think, future HNT material?

I only mentioned that because it made me think of this post’s title and I wanted to use it in the worst way.

More talking last night. We are doing so much talking lately. Mind you, I don’t have a problem with talking. Shit, I can write a 2,000 word blog post like nobody’s business, so talking certainly isn’t a problem. I over analyze and bellybutton gaze with the best of them.

Turns out Belle is still processing anger and hurt from six months ago when I was her lousy cheating husband and not her fuzzy little bunny. I respect that and want to do what I can to help her, but I simply cannot comprehend where she’s coming from. Where we are now is so much better than where we were prior to The Troubles. Personally, I have never felt more love for Belle or been happier in my marriage. In addition, I’m more sexually fulfilled now than at any time in my life. Not exactly satisfied since, you know, that kinda of goes against the paradigm and all, but my sexual relationship with Belle is more honest and open (even with myself) than any I’ve ever had (and, in my younger years, I had plenty). I am so very happy.

But Belle still has sadness. Moments of great sadness. And I can’t understand it. I can’t relate to the time travel required to revisit the hurtful, painful times in the past. Right now is wonderful for both of us (she says), so why dig up when things sucked? We know why the affair happened and what we needed to do to fix it. It’s been fixed. We’re not the same couple we were nine months ago.

I used an oyster analogy. Oysters get sand in them and it pisses them off so they do what they do and eventually what they get is a pearl. It’s a lovely, wonderful thing (at least to us humans) that all started with an annoying, painful thing. And it’s still in there, beneath all the layers. It never goes away. I get that. But it’s built upon and eventually becomes the foundation of something so much better. That’s our relationship right now. At least, that’s how I see it.

I’m not dismissive of Belle’s feelings. I try to talk her through them and do what I can to be supportive. Any time she needs to cry or talk, I’ll of course be there doing my best to understand.

Somehow, we ended the conversation with her still wanting the back rub she asked for before we went to bed. I was tired, and figured she was, too, but I had the oil and the towels and the hands, so rub away I did. I was really horny at that point. The slick oil on her naked back, the erection held securely by its chrome cock ring pressing against her ass and back…it was heaven. Again I found my hands moving against her skin and the feeling that I was masturbating in my mind. Somehow, the similarity of the motion combines with my heightened arousal and I feel like I’m jacking off. She really has become the focus of my sex. When I touch her, when I pleasure her, when I get her off, I’m touching, pleasuring and getting myself off.

When the massage was over, she again surprised me by asking for Pink, the little vibe. It was still in my drawer from the last time she used it, so I was able to get it pretty quickly. I never actually turned it on, though, because after a few moments of feeling my fingers, she announced she wanted to get off on her cock.

“I want to feel my cock in me. I want to watch you suck my tits while I ride my cock. Can you handle it, Thumper?”

“I think so,” I stammered.

“There is no think. Do or do not,” she replied, channeling Yoda.

“I can do it, Belle Fille,” I said with more confidence than I felt. To hedge my bet, I let my fingers become more insistent hoping she’s come that way and I’d avoid the risk of an unauthorized orgasm.

No dice. She really enjoyed the finger action, but nonetheless rolled me on my back for her main event. As she slid down on top of me, I tried to think about anything – anything – other than what was happening. After a little bit, I felt the familiar tingle and placed my hands on her ass to slow her down. She stopped for a moment and the urge passed, but then she started back up again.

And almost immediately, the tingle started back up again. I tried everything I had read about postponing orgasm. I bore down and applied internal pressure to the general area and that helped a little. Doing so caused my abdominal muscles to tighten, which she felt.

“What are you doing, Thumper?”

“Trying not to come.”

“How’s it going?”

“Oh…OK…I guess.”

“Good, because I’m going to fuck my cock for a good long time…”

Mother.

I knew I was doomed. The tickle grew and started to coalesce. Orgasm was imminent. I placed my hands back on her ass and pressed down, trying to make her stop. She did, for a second, but then started gyrating over the fully engulfed member.

“Oh god! Oh no! I’m going to come!” I was pleading for her to stop, but she wouldn’t. I felt the wave crash over me and a half dozen thick spurts of ejaculate surged out of me. I tried to fight it, to a point, but she was still gyrating. I was helpless. It was as if she pulled the orgasm from me, totally against my will.

A few moments later, she rolled off. “Give me Pink,” she said. I ripped through the bedsheets and under pillows trying to find the damn thing. My head was spinning with the sudden release and the guilt and the feeling of disappointment. Finally, I found the vibe and made a move with it toward her pussy.

But she grabbed it out of my hand. She pressed the button and I heard the thrumming little motor sink into her semen-lubed pussy. I left my hands off her until the very end and then it was only to rub the nipple closest to me. She didn’t push my hand away and finally came in a cascade of “oh, fuck”s.

She said afterward that she didn’t care if I came. It wasn’t her concern. She was getting her pleasure and that’s all that mattered. She didn’t feel like stopping so she didn’t. Very simple. I, of course, think there needs to be ramifications. I have no idea what, but I really need to feel the consequences of coming when I’m not allowed or, ultimately, it won’t mean anything. Then again, she knew what she was doing. Knew I was helpless to stop it. I don’t know. I’m confused.

In the mean time, I’m still pretty horny. And feeling guilty. I wish I had last night to do over…

Pink punishment

I have been punished. Well, at least I feel like I’ve been punished.

Last night, Belle said I was going to rub her feet, which is all well and good and very expected since she just had a pretty terrific orgasm the night before, but before I got started, she asked for Pink, the little vibe that could.

“Get that smile off your face. You’re not going to be involved in anything,” she said.1

Really? … OK.

So I got Pink out of the toy chest and handed it to Belle in much the same way a dog might hand its master a rolled up newspaper if, in fact, dogs could do such things. Then I rubbed her feet for 20 minutes as we watched AC360.2

When the rubbing was done, she was pretty relaxed and, had I not handed her a vibrator 20 minutes earlier, I would have expected she’d be drifting off to sleep. In fact, she looked like she was drifting off.

“What are you going to do with Pink?” I asked, as if I was inquiring about the day’s weather forecast, trying to sound disinterested.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she replied sleepily.

Gah! What!? Why!? Jesus, let me! I didn’t say those things, but they all leapt to mind simultaneously. I didn’t even know where Pink was. She was still in her nightclothes, covers pulled up over her breasts, all cocooned and sleepy looking. No outward indication that she wanted to get off at all.

So, back to AC360. He was saying something about something3, but I wasn’t paying much attention. Too distracted by the mysterious and unusual thing happening next to me. Then, about three minutes later, I noticed a little motion under the covers in the general vicinity of her crotch.

“You’re doing it right now!” In front of Anderson!

“Mmm-hmm.”

I turned off the TV. With it out of the way, I could hear the muffled thrumming of Pink on its lowest setting. Louder, then quieter, louder, then quieter as it was moved up and down, in and out. I started to feel the oh-so-familiar pressure between my legs while I divided my attention between the rising and falling motion of the covers and her face, brow furrowed, eyes closed, mouth half open.

It took much longer than I thought it would. If it had been me doing it, I’d have had her off in half the time, but she wasn’t working her nipples and, while I knew that would help her, I didn’t move in as I wasn’t allowed to be involved. I just laid next to her, eyes darting up to her face, then back to the covers, gripping my pillow and feeling the throbbing inside my tube.

Her breathing turned to shallow pants and the thrumming of the vibe became more insistent as she kick in it’s highest setting. Her hips started to gyrate and the rising and falling of the tent became more noticeable. She was really starting to fuck herself with the little vibe and her whole pelvis was getting into it. She turned her face away from me and started to arch her back and neck. Her heavy breathing became mixed with quiet, rhythmic moans as she got closer to the edge.

I whined, scrabbled at my confinement, and felt totally powerless.

The little rhythmic moans became little rhythmic “oh, fuck”s as she spread her legs open more and, I assume, shoved the little vibe all the way home for the finale.

She came, while inside, my boiling desire howled in protest.

Afterward, I felt…weird. In the past, when she’s masturbated in front of me, we were both naked and I had some involvement. This time, I wasn’t even a spectator. I was less than that. I was immaterial. She was fully clothed, totally covered. She wasn’t putting on a show for me, she was getting herself off in much the same way she would had I not been there. It was 100% about her.

My head was buzzing. I was so turned on, but knew there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t use her pleasure to bleed of my excess pressure since she had blocked my access to it. It was done. And all I could do was lay there and churn. She was spent and satisfied and I was ten times hornier than I would have been had I been the one to make her that way. It was torture.

Her hand came out from under the covers and she handed me Pink, wordlessly. Where I had once been the jockey who rode the races, I was now the lowly stable boy left to tend to the tack after the race was won by someone else. The vibe was deeply warm. I resisted the urge to lick it, to suck off her essence. I simply held it and contemplated how well this event demonstrated her position over my sexuality.

I got out of bed to wash her toy and replace it in it’s case in the toy box before climbing back in. She never moved.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” she purred.

“Why did you do it yourself? Why didn’t you want me to help?”

“Look, don’t give me that whiny crap–”

“I’m not whining! I just want to know, that’s all.” I felt extraordinarily submissive to her at that moment. I felt tiny and expendable.

“It’s my decision and that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want you involved.”

“OK,” I said, meekly.

Yesterday, I suggested it would be tricky figuring out how to punish a masochist. Today, I know how. This is how. Deny my totally. Nothing for me, everything for her. That’s punishment. Cruel and effective. The mere suggestion of being put through this again will keep me in line.

As sleep approached, I felt disconnected from her. Normally, I spoon into her as I fall asleep, but I couldn’t. She was laying on her back, arms and legs out, in a position that made spooning impossible and, since I still wasn’t sure to what extent I was allowed to engage with her, I didn’t try to put my arms or legs over her. Snuggling felt inappropriate, as if I’d be intruding. Her entire attitude, even in how she laid there, sprawled across the bed, more than a little asleep, was self-centered. I even had to shift my position to make room for her legs on “my” side of the bed. Her embrace of the dominant high ground was striking.

This morning, I’m fucking wired. The sub energy is humming inside – to such an extent that I still feel like I can’t touch her and have a hard time looking her in the eye. She, however, looks at me in an admiring, appreciative way suggestive of a jockey/horse, gearhead/hotrod, master/slave relationship. She owns me. She owns my cock, my sex, my heart, and she owns my soul. And, she knows it.

1 As usual, all dialog is approximate yet accurate with regard to intent.

2 So what about that Anderson Cooper? Gay, right? He’s like a cute little gay elf you just want to put in your pocket.

3 Saying something bad with his mouth, but something good – oh, so good – with those steely blue eyes.

Focus-pocus

Here’s one for you. I can’t remember when my last orgasm was. It was either April 28 or May 2. Maybe Belle will remember. In either event, it’s been a while and I can feel it. [UPDATE: Turns out, she can’t remember, either. Glad it’s so important that neither of us can remember the last time it happened. (Insert little eye-rolling emoticon here)]

Saturday night, I really wanted some action. My daughter had a friend over for a sleep-over so Belle was disinclined to do anything athletic (and didn’t even let me sleep naked). In the past, I might have pressed my luck and gotten annoying. The desire was sitting there, just beneath the surface in the middle of my chest, but I felt very much controlled and calm. She wasn’t being particularly dommy or anything, but nonetheless, I kept my hands to myself. It was a nice feeling, knowing that I really badly wanted to make a move but respecting the line we’ve constructed. I didn’t cross it and was pretty happy with my myself.

But just as we were drifting toward that zone where the lights go out and we go to sleep, she asked for a quick, stealthy orgasm. Of course, I was immediately engaged and, with the help of Pink the vibe, got her off as efficiently as possible. What I liked about that was, since I wasn’t pushing, she had asked for the orgasm purely out of her own indulgent desire. This wasn’t about making me happy or anything. It was all about her wanting a lil’ sumthin’ before going to bed. All I got out of the deal was her thanks and little kiss (which, of course, was A LOT).

Last night, similar situation, except this time I slipped. My hand absentmindedly found her nipple through her shirt and was swirling around it making it stand up. She said she wasn’t in the mood for anything like that and I immediately felt bad – much worse than I really should have. Apparently, I’m only capable of maintaining my subby exterior when actively concentrating on it. I felt a little ashamed and more than little disappointed in myself for slipping in such a small yet egregious way.

After the mishap, I asked her if she was happy. If she liked the arrangement we were living under. If I was doing a good job or if I could, in any way, do a better job. You know, typical submissive angst. She, of course, said everything was great. That I was great. That I was doing a great job, etc. But I know I could do better. I know there are more things I could do for her and that I’m not always as timely in doing the things she’s already put on me. But, she’s very sweet and probably thought I was fishing for compliments or something.

A week or so ago, she told me I wasn’t going to come before Memorial Day. Last night, I asked her how far she thought I could go. While talking about it, she admited to letting me have orgasms in the past when I become difficult to maintain. She recognizes the line where, once crossed, it’s just easier for her to let me squirt than it is to deal with my elevated hormones. Being in that sweet spot at the moment where I can still deal with my hormones but also am approaching the peak of my desire to serve her, I hear that as a failure on my part. At some point (that she’s recognized but I haven’t) my focus slips. Just like my fingers accidentially finding her nipple and touching it in a way they shouldn’t have, I lose a necessary level of control over myself.

In any event, Memorial Day is still two weeks away. Part of me wants her to keep pushing me well into June so I can demonstrate better self-control. I’m in that weird, headspacey placy where I want to be denied, denied, and denied some more. Oh, and locked up. Like, for a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she’s a better judge of these things. I think I’ll just do what I have said I’d do: let go and let her decide.

000667

I’m on my business trip. The one that will keep me from home for three days. Belle had previously said she wanted me locked up while I was away, but she neglected to specifically order me into the device this morning before she left. I seriously considered not putting it on for a while. It would be so much easier, I thought, to sit in a plane for a few hours and get up and speak in front of hundreds of people if I didn’t have a fucking plastic tube locked on me. Since she hadn’t said to put it on, maybe she had a change of heart.

travel2_export
Inmate 000667 in solitary confinement

I knew what she wanted, though. I also knew, considering my porn/masturbation habits while in bland corporate hotel rooms, that I’d minimally be edging myself pretty much nonstop. I also knew that eventually my hormone-addled brain would find a way to sabotage my best intentions and I’d find myself covered in hot, pungent spunk. So I put myself in the device and snapped plastic lock 000667 into place. You can see it there in my mug shot on the right if you want proof (kinda blurry since I took it with my phone).

The thing is, I’m pretty sure I’d have blown it already had I not been locked away. Belle allowed me to bring her to orgasm with the vibrator last night and then let me spend about 10 minutes beating off…I really, really wish I could be doing it again right now.

Before that, Belle and I talked about the “week off” we just went through. It was a full week off since, besides the three orgasms she let me have at the B&B, she also let me come inside her Saturday morning (which I didn’t really expect). Thing is, it wasn’t all that great of a week, from my perspective. Yeah, I liked the spurting, but I actually missed the feelings that come from being denied by Belle. I like the kind of mate I am when I don’t come (either by my own hand or while having sex with her). I’m not as attentive to her needs and my timely contributions to the housework suffers. I’m not an asshole or anything, but I can totally see how I’m different and I don’t really like it.

It’s interesting to me how simple it is to fuck with millions of years of evolutionary programming. My inclination, when having “normal” levels of sexual release, is to be more self-interested and less aware of her and her needs. In the past, my interest in courting her was directly related to how badly I wanted in her pants. But it was always fleeting. Once I got what I wanted, things would go back to normal which all too often meant she carried too much of the household load and my interest in TV was greater than my interest in her. I am not unique. I suspect that the vast majority of men are like I was. To reverse all that behavior, all it takes is to move control over my sexual release to her. That simple little thing, and I’m all about her all of the time, constantly looking for ways to make her happy, which in turn, makes me happy. Happier than I am when I can come whenever I want.

The change in me is so profound, I’m sure it leads her to question a few things (at least it raises questions for me). Like why should she have to do this to make me a better mate? After considering it for a while, I think all we’re doing is exploiting how the male brain works. We’re basically tricking my brain into engaging a prolonged and heightened “courtship mode” – not unlike how it was operating at the very beginning of our relationship – by withholding its ability to do the one thing reptilian male brains were programmed to do: spread the seed. So it’s still me, still my feelings about her at work, but amplified. At the end of the day, I don’t ever want Belle to feel guilty for denying me. I don’t want her to feel as though she’s being unfair or mean to me. As I said, I like how it feels. Perversely, the more she lets me pleasure her while I’m denied, the closer I get to her. If she let me fuck her to orgasm five times a week, I’d find it easier to drift away from her. That’s irony.

Personally, I think we’ve stumbled upon the secret to a happy relationship. I think everyone should be doing it.

In the temple

I’m wiping down the counter top last night and Belle tells me the combination of the smell of the stuff I’m using and the visual of me actually doing it in front of her of gets her motor running. That wasn’t her term – “gets her motor running” – but it’s my interpretation. And, of course, hearing that gave me the familiar tubal pressure. Not that I needed the extra stimulation. I’m really fucking horny now and bobbing around nicely in my pool of sub energy (if you want to imagine me in water wings and goggles, feel free). I’m no longer pushing myself to serve her and now find that need pushing me. This was evidenced by my attitude later that night in bed.

At some point, and for a reason I can’t recall, she suggested, as we lay there, that I was disappointed about something related to what we were doing (or were about to do). Quite the contrary, I said, I was not disappointed. Not at all. Yes, I badly wanted to feel her pleasure at the end of my fingers or tongue – my sexual arousal having achieved its cruising altitude sometime that day – but I reiterated that sex is for her, not me. Whatever she wants, she gets. What I want should be immaterial. Honesty, there’s no other way for me to operate when I’m this horny. That’s the one huge lesson I’ve learned in the past few months. If you’re going to be denied, you’re fucking well denied and cannot attempt to make it otherwise. To do so is to work counter to the entire paradigm of her control. In any event, I assured her I wasn’t at all disappointed. I actually felt very calm inside and was prepared for whatever she decided she wanted to do.

Happily, she wanted to come. We groped and kissed for a little bit (that is, I groped – she had her arms around me, but that’s about it) before she made the motion I’ve grown to love. She simply lays back, spreading her arms and legs, in a position that says quite clearly, “Pleasure me.” Fucking hell, unleash the hounds! After a few minutes of nipple sucking and clit fingering, she started talking. That’s somewhat unusual in itself, but even more so in that she was describing a fantasy scene in which she was a goddess laying in her pillared temple and I was a warrior chosen from many as the only one worthy and able to bring her to climax. In a remarkable parallel to how it actually feels to me when she allows me that kind of access, she said the orgasm I was bringing into being was how she wanted to be worshiped. I found the whole scenario to be pretty fucking hot so, when she asked, “Are you hard?” I could barely squeak out a muffled, “Uh-hurmph!” through my mouthful of nipple. Hell yeah, I was hard. The CB6K was biting with unforgiving ferocity.

It became clear, though, that my fingers weren’t going to be sufficient to the job at hand. I realized she wasn’t really climbing the mountain, regardless of how I fingered her. She brought out Pink to finish the job, but didn’t hand it to me (as I thought she would), instead going to work on herself with it. Now I was disappointed, but I didn’t say anything and instead redoubled my work on her tits. I could hear the little vibe go in and out of her wet pussy and the fact that it wasn’t me using it caused my desire to ache in its confinement. She brought herself to climax and roughly pushed me off her breast immediately afterward. She was done and didn’t need my mouth on her anymore. All I could do was gather her in my arms and hold her as she basked in the afterglow, my own arousal feeding-back and eating itself. That’s the moment of the unorgasm, the cresting and washing back of unfulfilled and unneeded desire that, regardless, leaves the tide of arousal just a little bit higher after it passes than before.

The night that followed was restless for me. I wanted to have contact with her and repeatedly put my arms around her, but then found myself aroused to such an extent that the straining meat between my legs hurt and I couldn’t fall asleep. Turning over in the other direction, all I could do was think about how badly I wanted her. These weren’t random sexual thoughts. They were about her. I wanted her pussy again, either under my fingers, in my mouth, or surrounding the cock. Unsurprisingly, it never happened.

Whimpering, doggie-style

My dog hates it when Belle beats me. I’m sure he thinks that if I’m getting the crap beat out of me, then he’s next on the list. The problem he presents is twofold. We can’t leave him outside our room because he’ll want to come in and will sit out in the hall and whine, scratch, etc., eventually waking the kids. Having him in the room is problematic since he’s a major distraction. Kinda hard to really get off on being whipped when the dog is pacing around whimpering and trying to sqeeze into places too small for him. By the time she was through working her aggression out on my ass, the dog was hiding under the bed and didn’t want to come out.

“Thumper’s Choice”, for those who are curious, involved being tied to the bed on my stomach, wrists secured by handcuffs, handcuffs strapped to the headboard, ankles separately cuffed and strapped to the footboard. I could almost raise myself up on my elbows and knees. She blindfolded me, rubbed some Icy Hot on my nuts and nipples, and proceeded to flog my ass with her little toy flogger. I call it a toy because it’s just a bunch of thin rubber cords on a plastic handle. Not the most beautiful of implements, but it was what we got at the beginning of our exploration. While it looks like a toy, it definitely does not feel like one. When she gets going with it, the resulting stinging and burning can get pretty intense. Still, I’d like to get something a little sexier.

It was a longer session that usual, though I can’t tell how long. I kind get all timeless when she’s hurting me. I know it was long enough for the Icy Hot to stop burning like a motherfucker, so maybe 30 minutes? I dunno. There were times when the combination of the burning nuts and the hard, repetitive striking of my ass was nearly more than I could handle, but the times in between were heavenly. She’d lazily brush just the ends of the flogger along my spine, over my ass, and then up between my cheeks. Just when I was grooving to the gentle sweetness of it, arching my back and raising my ass into the air, I’d hear the thin rubber strands whistle through the air a microsecond before they struck me again. She’s getting pretty good at the hitting thing. She even said she enjoyed it. Says it’s cathartic. Well, baby, you can get your catharsis out on my ass whenever you want.

Afterward, she wouldn’t let me get her off. I had to wait until last night for that. She told me to give her a back and shoulder massage (with the oil) before having me use the little pink vibrator on her. Again, not good with keeping time, but she came so hard and so fast it felt like it was over before it even got started. I have to admit, I felt somewhat cheated. Seriously, it was maybe ten seconds from the time I put the vibe against her clit and the time she started to come. Through all this, she never let me get naked – not even when we went to sleep. I wanted to. A lot. But she never gave the word. This means one of two things. One, she just forgot. I can’t explain why (trust me, I just started and erased four different attempts), but simply forgetting to allow me to do this would leave me feeling a little neglected. Kinda like forgetting to feed the dog or something. Anyway, the other option is she was purposefully withholding that permission. In which case, telling me she was doing so would have felt better, as it does whenever she demonstrates her control over me.

Speaking of which, I’m still not feeling the subby vibe. In fact, I’ve been in a funk for about a week and it’s getting funkier. I’m not panicking and questioning my entire world order as I have previously when this has happened. I’ve learned over the past four months that being flooded with all these hormones and abdicating self-determination regarding my sexual satisfaction makes me emotionally vulnerable. The slightest thing can push me into the mood I’m in right now. I know it’ll work itself out shortly. At least, I hope it will.

The organ of the dominant paradigm

I wasn’t going to write about this. It seems as though I’ve been running over here to tell everyone each time we have sex and, I suppose, that would get a little tiresome after a while. I mean seriously, who wants to sound like that guy in high school who told you each and every time a chick let him get to third base?

I wasn’t going to, but I figured out an angle – a way to use what happened to make a point. And my point is, last night we had terrific, mind expanding, deeply satisfying sex and at no time whatsoever were any penises involved in any way. Just the idea of that kind of blows my mind. Never would I have said such an thing could be possible four months ago.

It started in the kitchen. I was throwing together dinner and I think Belle was emptying the dish washer when she slapped my ass with a spatula. Even though it was through my sweats, it kind of stung. She was just fooling around, but when she saw my apparent interest in the sensation (I think I grabbed the granite and bit my lower lip), she did it again. And again and again. Ouch. But, you know, in the good way. She had previously said that that night she was going to do something painful to me, but hadn’t really settled in on what it was going to be. A few seconds swinging a spatula and she knew. That night, she was going to hit me on the ass with a kitchen utensil.

She hasn’t really hit me all that much and never on the ass. Yeah, she’s bitten me there (fucking awesome) and scratched and dug her nails into it, but never hit me. I’ve very much wanted to be hit there and, lucky for me, she found something she wanted to hit me with. Apparently, she finds it amusing that such a common item could be used for such an uncommon purpose. I told her we could find kinky shit to do with all kinds of stuff, if that’s what she wanted.

So, of course, I’m thinking about getting whacked with the spatula all during dinner. Afterward, while I was cleaning up and she was lounging on the couch in front of the fire, I went to her. I needed to kneel there and just be close. The idea of being hurt by her always makes me the most submissive I can be and so I wanted to be near her and show her how grateful I was for what she was going to do. I feel like there’s a room I go to when she’s abusing me and, when I know it’s coming, I kind of stand in the doorway – half in and half out, a foot on each side. And that’s where I was there, kneeling on the floor. Standing on the threshold of my secret room of pain.

Later, in the bedroom, candles all lit and semi-dark, I felt a trembling anticipation. I had placed the spatula on her nightstand (she let me pick which one she’d use). I got up to make sure the kids were both asleep and came back in and closed the door behind me. She told me to strip. I did and stood there naked before her wearing nothing but my chastity device. I’m quite self-conscience of it when I’m like that and the feeling layered on top of the knowledge that I was about to be hurt. I climbed back onto the bed and again, without even thinking about, put myself in a very submissive posture – face down, ass up, rubbing my head up against her torso. I was as deep into the headspace as I can get.

She ran her hands along my back and up and over my ass. At first, gentle caresses, then light scratching, then, suddenly, hard, deep scratching. She raked her nails from my ass all the down my back to my neck, then would pick a spot and dig her nails into me deeply. I whimpered into the sheets and she switched back to the gentle before attacking again with the harsh. She had me on edge and jumpy, hurting me randomly in a way I hadn’t been expecting.

Then she picked up the utensil and moved into position. At first, she hit me lightly getting me used to it. Even then, it stung more than I thought it would. Beforehand, I asked her to eventually hit me as hard as she could just to see what the worse could feel like. It didn’t take her long to get there. Left cheek, right cheek, left, right, left, left, left. She’d rain down a quick series of blows, then stop and stroke the burning surface of my ass with the cold, flat black plastic. I probably would have dealt better had I been tied down. As it was, I writhed and whimpered and cried out with each hard thwack.

At first, it was very hard to take. I liked it, but it was so intense. Much more than I’m used to or was expecting. I didn’t think of asking her to stop, but it was getting difficult to imagine it continuing. After a few minutes, she asked me how I was doing. Was I OK? Long pause. Yes, I was fine. The hitting continued. My ass was stinging and I could feel it radiating heat. At some point, I felt myself start to draw away from the intensity of the pain. It still hurt, but the harsh jagged edges of it were smoothing out. Just as it seemed I was settling in for the long haul, she stopped.

We laid there, kissing, my eyes closed and ass on fire. She asked how I felt. I said I felt like getting hit some more. But she was tired, so it was over for the night. And seriously, I basked. In whatever chemical afterglow follows that kind of punishment, I laid there and wallowed in it. I can’t put into words how it felt. Kind of like after an orgasm, but not. Different. Higher. Warmer. I don’t know. But how I love my Belle for taking me there.

After that, it was more typical of our recent sessions. I gave her a back and shoulder massage with the scented oil while my ass kept up it’s pleasant throbbing sting. Once she had had enough rubbing, she turned over and I used Pink, the little vibe that could, to bring her to orgasm (preceded with multiple soft yet forceful exclamations of “oh god” in quick succession – that was a nice touch). Afterward, she giggled saying the residual sensation of the vibe tickled.

It wasn’t until this morning that I realized we never, not once, even touched the cock during the entire scene. It simply wasn’t a factor, yet I was more than satisfied and she had a terrific orgasm. They can’t all go down like that, of course (she’s too big a fan of her cock), but to be able to pull it off not only absent the organ at the focus of the dominant paradigm’s version of sex but without even considering it is awesome.

Maybe it’s time for a new paradigm.

Three times

Saturday afternoon, we successfully extracted Belle Fille from the regional airport. She’d spent the better part of a full day coming back from the other side of the world and felt like it. We whisked her home and shortly had her soaking in a hot, sudsy bath.

One of my favorite non-sexual ways to service her is to wash her hair. I don’t do it like they do at the salon. For me, getting her hair clean is secondary to the main event which is to massage her scalp, neck and shoulders and spend as much time as possible just touching her. I sit behind so I have full access, but I have to be careful since I have strong hands and she prefers a firm yet gentle touch. In any event, after I had washed and rinsed and had just finished applying the conditioner, I was cradling her head by holding her along the jawline just under her ears. I was experiencing the greatest urge to reach down and touch her naked body. My fingers remembered the feel of her pussy and I knew I could be there in seconds. There was a time when I would have done just that, but I resisted. I resisted even reaching down and touching her breasts which were bobbing there, half covered in bubbles and water. I just sat there, holding her, my head down, and let all these desires resonate within me. I wanted her badly, and she knew it.

“I used Pink three times while I was gone,” she said quietly.

That got my attention. My head snapped up. “What?”

“Three times,” she repeated. “I used Pink three times.”

I had several opportunities to talk to her over the course of her trip and she never said anything about this. She told me how busy and tired and stressed she was so I assumed she never got around to it. Assumed and not surprised. But no! She did. Three times. The realization of this flooded through me. She, of course, has no restrictions against sexual pleasure of any kind. I suffered while she was gone, unable to sleep or think about anything but her, while she was half a world away with a vibe sticking out of her pussy. The searing inequity of our predicaments burned and delighted me.

Saturday night, she was finally next to me in bed. Finally, I could turn over and see her there. My former self, feeling what I was feeling, would have been nothing but hard-charging hands, but this new me just laid there, smiling, and taking the occasional kiss.

Her lips. Oh, god, her lips. Knowing as I did that I was not going to archive orgasm that night – indeed, that I wouldn’t even come out of the CB-6000 – everything else about her was amplified in my mind. The touch of her lips on mine was exquisite. The smell of her breath, the taste of her mouth…all of these details that might normally be missed or minimized on the way towards the inevitability conclusion of the past became my entire reason for being there. Her. All of her. And whatever she wanted or needed.

It’s cliche, of course, but life with orgasm denial is about the journey, not the destination. It’s about driving the slower, scenic route instead of the highway or deciding to cross the country via rail instead of jet plane. Slower travel means greater anticipation for the arrival, but it also means taking the time to absorb the dozens of little details from along the way and letting them – the small pleasures – accumulate and outweigh the one that’s big, simple, and selfish. So I smelled her, felt her, tasted her, and loved every fiber of her – all through my lips.

Eventually, she told me to get naked. I did and embraced her fully, feeling her body against mine – finally! – and pressed into her the hard plastic that had become my manhood. We kissed even more passionately and I felt pressure build in the tube. She started to claw me. Driving her nails into the flesh around my groin, raking them across my back, ribs, and ass. Twisting, pulling, and stretching my nipples. Heavenly. Finally, she took firm hold of my trapped scrotum and began to squeeze it hard while chewing on my neck. The flood of sensory input quickly overloaded me and I actually screamed blissful agony into her pillow. She stopped and I collapsed, panting, glowing, warm with her abuse.

After I collected myself, I said, “Funny, I imagined something sweet and gentle on your first night back.”

“Starting now, it will be,” and she pulled up her top.

Cutting to the chase, I don’t think I’ve ever felt her wetter. Using my hands (and wishing they were my mouth), she started to make sounds like she was coming. They went on and on. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, it ended with a flushed, exhausted crescendo.

Hang it from an aircraft carrier, boys: Mission accomplished.

Sunday night and I’m making dinner while she sips her wine and reads Denying Thumper at the bar. She hasn’t spent much time looking at all the thousands of words I wrote for her while she was gone. Too busy, she says. Fine, I think. Not that it would have taken much time, but I guess I’d rather be here with her when she sees first sees them. Nervously, I watch her for reaction. Whenever she give little laugh, I ask, “What?” I walk behind her to see where she is. The waiting is killing me.

When she gets the end of the last entry, she’s crying. I’ve moved her. I come around and hold her and kiss her and thank her for being with me, even though I’m annoyingly complicated and high maintenance. She says I’m her favorite person in the word and she isn’t a big fan of simplicity, anyway.

After dinner, I ask to be released for hygiene purposes. We’re in the bathroom and I’ve got my encased unit exposed, waiting for the key, when she pulls my head down by the hair and just looks into my eyes. She’s waiting for something. Ouch. What is it? Oh! I tell her my phrase, the one that reaffirms my purpose and position. She releases my hair and unlocks the device.

“Tonight, you’re going to rub my back and massage my feet and then I’m going to sleep, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After the cleaning, I bring the lock back to her. She likes to be the one to make it click. We’re in our room and she’s got me by the hair again. Quicker on the on uptake this time, I say the magic phrase and she locks me up. Without warning, she has me by the balls. Really, she’s got my poor, stretched balls in her grip and she’s pulling HARD.

“How was the shower?”

I’m processing the question and the pain at the same time. I don’t really answer as much as I utter an incoherent sound.

“How. Was. The. Shower?” SQUEEZE.

“GOOD! It was good, thanks,” and she releases me.

“That’s nice,” as she leaves the room.

Finally, later that evening, after the massaging is over and she’s smelling of scented oil and is all rubbery and relaxed, I ask her about my release schedule. Was she serious about three times in 2009? No, not exactly. Three more times is what she meant.

I will get to come three more times this year.

I shudder at the thought. The chastity tube instantly starts to throb painfully. Three times. For real. I will only have three more orgasms all fucking year. I’m turned on and terrified. Can I do this? I’m babbling and fumbling and scared as hell while trying to process that yes, for real, she’s serious. She will come and come and I will…wait.

“I know you’re always trying to be an over-achiever,” she says, not incorrectly. “This’ll give you something to blog about, won’t it?”

Fucking christ. What have I done?